Operation Sandblast
by NCR Ranger
Summary: Its not only sand that's rough and course, and gets everywhere. Its the Brotherhood of Nod too. But , they haven't met GDI's Refractors yet.


_" You tell that long tongued liar._

_You tell that midnight rider._

_ The rambler, gambler, backbiter._

_ Tell 'em that God's going to, cut them down "_

It was customary for GDI pilots and soldiers to play _some_ kind of soundtrack to fill the long and empty hours ( or minutes ) spent in transit to the battlespace.

It was nothing new, either. Fighting men ( because like it or not, combat is fundamentally a man's job. ) had gone into action accompanied by tunes from as far back as the days of the Romans, and they hadn't stopped. If they were about to march and run face first into combat, with its usual lack of guarantee of living through it, then, well, aside from and behind praying for divine assistance ( or mercy on their souls if they didn't survive ), having something that got your blood flowing ringing in your ears was the least you could do for yourself.

Exactly _why_ they did so, of course, was for all kinds of reasons: some of them did it to calm their nerves and combat the raging battle of fears inside them. Said fears were mostly between their inescapable mortal fear of dying, their fear of letting their comrades down, and fear of not doing their jobs right and to the fullest extent of their training.

Others did it, because listening to lyrics you knew and connected with was simply soothing. It wasn't mindless and inane noise and racket, like hard rock or rapping; it was a vestige of calmer days. Calmer days of when you weren't even in the service yet and were biding your time till you finally figured out what to do with your life, or when/ if you actually _were_ in the service, and were killing free hours back at base, waiting for the inevitable call to scramble/ stand to.

And, if you were Warrant Officer Issac Vikanski , you listened to something for all of the above reasons, _and_ because, as if this needed to be said:

What else is adrenaline for, if you can't get it pumping ?

_Its doing that job for me right now. I need _something_ to stay positive. _Issac automatically was letting his right leg bounce in sync with the song, tapping the floor of the cockpit of his SA-1 Orca Attack VTOL. The heavily plated, laden-with-missiles craft was skimming ( hurtling along at at least 500 mph at at altitude of less than 1,000 ft. ) over the rolling and gust swept, tan dunes of the Dusht-e Lut Desert of eastern Persia.

The 4 ship formation, belonging to the 41st Tactical Strike Wing ( better known as the Desert Knights, stemming from the silhouette of a mounted medieval knight with lance extended painted on the noses of the Orcas, and also due to how they were based out of Parker Air Force Base in Dubai, United Arab Emirates ),

Or, rather, what_ had_ been eastern Persia. Thanks the rampant and unchecked spread of Tiberium ( not that anyone had devised a sweeping method for blocking the emerald crystal from carpeting everything and anything it wanted ) had either pushed out everyone who'd ever lived there from the entire region, or it'd drawn in the scourge that was the virulent terrorist organization known as the Brotherhood of Nod.

Either way, they'd both resulted in a landscape that was the picture of a Y-zone: great simmering fields of emerald colored Tiberium that lay in sharp contrast to the dust-shaded sand and stone desert. Dotted here and there were towns, cities, and an even more numerous volume of villages/ hamlets, were now nothing more than ruins and badly dilapidated shantytowns. If they hadn't fallen into that state without anyone to upkeep and tend to them, it was because the BON's terror squads had bivouacked themselves among the shells of the abandoned population centers, and did nothing to improve them. After all, the crumbling infrastructure served as perfect camouflage for BON operations.

They had entire_ armies_ living in, and being supported by, facilities and depots housed within what was formerly a actual _city._

Vikanski's own native land of Poland was itself mostly a Y-Zone. Watching the devastation below, Issac's blood chilled at the thought of it. Poland had been put through enough over its hard history: getting raided and razed by the Mongol armies of Subutai Khan, chopped up ( " partitioned " ) by Russia, then abandoned by the recalcitrant French and British to face a Communist and Nazi combined invasion during World War Two ( that the French and British had ultimately gotten fully into that fight later didn't fully erase the sting; they had promised to help, but they didn't have the spine to commit to fighting on the continent again. ).

Only a thin strip of Poland, far to the north, remained a B-Zone. Issac's family had been relocated, though, something he expressed thanks for every single day. They were fortune enough to be able to resettle in Japan, also a B-Zone, which, being an island, was also mostly free of getting contaminated by the Emerald death.

Many of their fellow Poles weren't able to do either, though. Issac's gaze drifted to an image of a beautiful white eagle, with a gold crown on its proudly raised head, its wings extended out to either side.

The crest of Poland.

A reminder of one of the most stalwart of the GDI's European nations; now, though, it was as decimated as Tiberium as more than half of the world now. Warsaw itself was _buried_ under the crystals. Along with it, was the remains of Poles killed by Tiberium poisoning- a slow, painful kind of death.

It was Tiberium's fault. It was the BON's fault.

Issac found consolation in that both could be killed.

_I can't help who I love that's behind me directly, but I can eliminate what I hate that's in front of me. I need to find them first, though._

_Till then, I have what calms me down. Even though I don't actually need it._

_" _ Vikanski ! You wretch, what's that I hear coming in on comms ? Don't you have _any_ other soundtracks ?! "

WO. Accuzo Litadore. The Italian village boy with a fondness for Olive Garden was flying right off Issac's starboard wing.

His heritage of the nation that had proven its ineptitude in BOTH world wars was somewhat uplifted by how Italy had at least manufactured the Lamborgini and the Ferrari- cars that Issac's wife, Michelle, was quite fond of after Accuzo's wealthy father had given her one as shared wedding gift for her and Issac.

Issac had found as much satisfaction of getting use of that expensive horsepower, as he did at taunting Acuzzo over his subpar taste in soundtracks. Accuzo could at least understand that Ferraris' Lamborginis, and their kind beat any old classic " car " from the 1970's out of the park, yet he seemed to still have a chip on his shoulder toward " Cut you down. ".

Which was maddening.

_No common sense._

_" Yes, I do. " _Issac patiently tapped the " send " option for the radio. " Which is exactly why I choose the one you're hearing. _Because_ it ticks you off. What other reason could I want ? "

" Oh. And your wife loved it when I played it for her at your wedding. Jennifer's so nice. At least she thinks Ferraris are better looking than relic Impalas "

Acuzzo's response was something mostly unrepeatable in Italian.

After a momentary pause, he grunted: " I don't know why I _bother_ these days. You're a total basket case. "

" You've summed up all 2nd Lieutenants, Acuzzo. Most homeless folks you see are actually 2nd Lieutenants who got lost on land nav. "

That Acuzzo had expressed an interest in becoming a commissioned officer, and was actually in the process of submitting his application to OCS had presented the perfect opportunity to ridicule his choice- or rather, it would be ridicule, if it'd been false. It was common knowledge that the only thing in an army worse than sergeants ( who were constantly and irrationally angry about everything, only communicated by screaming, and were impossible to please ), were 2nd Lieutenants who were utterly clueless about everything, and seemed to forget that the Air Force is who the Army calls on when they can't get past something.

Its really the Warrant Officers who run things. After all, they're actually semi-decent.

" You've proven my point, Issac. I will leave you to your dreadful tunes. Let's see how long it lasts before the boss man steps in. "

With that, he clicked off. Issac cackled.

_Technically_, though, Accuzzo had a point: he shouldn't be doing this. After all, there were some irrefutable regs against using GDI comms systems for anything other than operational comms traffic. The flight lead could overhear that kind of thing on the command freq, and Issac was well aware of how quickly he could receive a blunt reprimand to " police the noise ".

If they did, he'd comply, of course. At least it wouldn't be a _repeat_ offense for him. Still, Issac felt strongly that everyone in the flight could do with a little morale boosting right now- not that they were even lacking in it to begin with, which was mostly why he wasn't keeping his soundtracks on a private circuit. How else could he spread the vibe around ?

Not that the officer brass was always that understanding of such infallible logic.

_Any second now. _He turned his helmeted head to watch the lead Orca's engines' white-blue exhaust plumes flicker. His leg bounced again as the song finished, and automatically began to loop back on its set second run.

_Tell that long tongued-_

" WO Vikanski, come in. "

_And, there it is._

The crisp, formal, and slightly Boston-accented Captain Richard McDermont sounded in Issac's earpiece.

The American officer had been running the Desert Knights for the past 4 years, and they were well into their 5th. As far as officers went, he was actually fairly pragmatic and willing to find loopholes with regs and rules if it was conducive to getting results and inflicting as many casualties on the BON as they could per mission. On the other hand, ( needless to say ) getting as many of the Knights home alive as possible was also a high priority, and the 41's relatively low casualty list was a testament to that. Issac and the others overall considered themselves fortunate.

Still, officers were officers, including him. Issac so far hadn't tested his tolerance for outright violation of _all_ regs, so as the song blared out again, he idly wondered when/ if he'd get told what he was fairly certain he'd get told to do.

_And here it is._

Mentally sighing, Issac activated the " Send " for his radio, and replied.

" Receiving loud and clear sir. "

" WO, I don't want to bring this up the chain, but if you keep playing that song on open freq, I might have to. "

Well, it was better than giving him a scathing reprimand- or any kind of reprimand, actually. Another way than an officer could adhere to following the regs, and still not be a_ total_ stick in the mud

Emphasis on total, though.

_Doing our jobs_.

_No messing around, at least_

_" _ Understood, Captain. Switching. Your taste in soundtracks is noted, sir"

" I will take that as a ' Yes sir. Complying as ordered.' Good enough. "

The comms link ended.

Certain that it was off, Issac huffed. He needed to express his annoyance _somehow. _Outright_ saying_ so was out of the question, of course. Unless he wanted the song and dance of disciplinary action, which he most certainly didn't.

_Well, I at least _some _of my money's worth._

* * *

10 minutes later, Issac was reminded of how there was more than one way to get that adrenaline surging.

Xiphos flight had crested the rim of what appeared to be a gargantuan bowl-shaped basin. The massive area stretched out for over a dozen miles, with smaller dips and indentations markings its floor. Smacked down roughly in the middle, was the kind of quaint village sized settlement that would fit in right at home on the back of a postcard.

Well, it would've, if the whole place hadn't been in such a state of disrepair as everywhere else in this corner of the world, the Persian Y-Zone. At a glance, it would be enough to convince most that it was exactly as it appeared: a scattering of sad, tottering ruins. Every structure was dustier than a corded phone left untouched ( as all corded phones had been for generations now ), and badly faded by the elements.

The only kind of habitation these kinds of places ever experienced ( now that their heydays were long and cold dead ), were bands of borderline tribals hunkering down there and stubbornly/ desperately scratching out a living. Y-Zones were full of those kinds of folks, robbed of everything by the BON, by Tiberium, or by both.

_And, what the GDI B-Zone Nightly News will gladly remind you of as well, is that these locales are the BON's favorite. You only need to look for the right-_

_Aha !_

Issac had been visually combing this place as soon as they'd drawn close enough, while also keeping an eye on his onboard scanner readouts. The whole flight had been doing both, he knew, even if Captain McDermont hadn't called out " Heads on a swivel and check your screens. ", which he of course had. Xiphos had gone into combat spread, and accordingly gone switches hot. Their batteries of Javelin missiles and 35mm autocannons were were now online and ready, as soon as they could find a target.

And there _were_ targets in this village. Issac had spotted a sign of some now.

A lone truck, leaving a billowing cloud of dust , was careening along from left to right, headed for the village. It'd emerged from a narrow defile that led up from a lower elevation into the bowl, and was proceeding at roughly highway speed.

On its own, that _would_ be nothing: a truck, driving along in the middle of a Y-Zone. What few denizens of these zones mostly sustained themselves by selling scrap metal and salvage to GDI- run recycling plants built and guarded on the border zones of B-Zones and Y-Zones. Crops didn't exactly grow well in the Tiberium-riddled soil of Y zones, so trucks- a mix of relatively clean looking ones, and others that were total rattletraps- carrying their metal cargoes plied the nearly-reclaimed-by-the-Earth roads.

Except, _this_ truck, was emanating _Tiberium radiation._

Issac's scanners were blaring with the unmistakable tone that proved they'd detected the crystals in a concentrated amount- a series of long, sharp beeps.

_Eeeeep, eeeeep, eeep_

_Paydirt._

McDermont called in over comms, as if cued in by an unseen signal to do so right at that moment:

" Confirmed Tiberium detected in that vehicle . Let's show them we're serious about enforcing GDI's stance on that. "

_Oh. Its _on _now. _

_" _Sir, multiple vehicles are behind that truck. Its a convoy ! "

Accuzzo. His observation was spot on, as Issac took a closer look, and spotted a line of trucks emerging up onto the plateau behind the first. All were keeping pace with one another,the dust raised by their wheels merging.

_This doesn't look suspicious at all. _Issac felt a trickle of adrenaline, and knew it wasn't fear; it was anticipation. It wasn't that he didn't feel fear, but that icewater sensation wasn't it.

" Getting Tiberium readings off all those vehicles ! ", Issac sent over the general freq.

By now, they'd nearly drawn within missile range. The trucks had certainly- or nearly certainly-spotted them by now, and their formation became a litttle looser as they increased their speed even more, taking the curving road toward the "village " at unsafe-by-B Zone -standards speeds.

Not that it would save them. Trucks laden with Tiberium were BON targets. Nobody with a functioning mind would even contemplate touching the crystals, even the desperate rabble who lived in the Y-Zones.

It was time to go hot. Issac knew it. His trigger finger slowly began applying pressure to the release of a full volley-

And then McDermont said exactly what every pilot wanted to hear:

" All callsigns, open fire ! Let's get loud. "

* * *

Tiberium, a rule, is quite volatile.

During the 3rd Global Conflict over Tiberium, virtually all of Eastern Europe was rendered uninhabitable when a cache of liquid Tiberium beneath Kane's Temple Prime was detonated by an errant Ion Cannon strike. The resulting explosion was large enough to utterly consume a city the size of Tokyo, before immediately setting off a chain reaction of other explosions of similar size, that rippled out, detonating all Tiberium for nearly a thousand miles.

And that was one end of the spectrum. On much smaller level, GDI forces had nearly taken out entire BON bases when one of their Tiberium-powered plants had been taken out by mortar strikes. The emerald crystals may have provided plenty of power, but they were about as volatile as a sane person woken up before 7am, and even when not in liquid form, anything with Tiberium in it exploded about twice as mightily as it would if it'd been packed with C4.

Issac had blown up his share of T- plants, and every one of the detonations had been spectacular. Now, though, he got an even better show watching his rockets slamming into the first of the Tiberium laden trucks.

_Whmp, Bwmmmmm !_

Even through the cockpit canopy and his helmet, Issac swore he could hear the muffled echo of the blast, as the truck was replaced by a brilliant blood red and burnt orange firecloud, with a eerily glowing cloud of emerald dust rising above it instantly as the onboard crystals detonated.

Seconds later, missiles from the other Orcas hit home, and a 4th of July worthy fireworks show resulted, as overlapping explosions- chain reactions, as was the case when taking out anything with Tiberium in close proximity- rippled across the line in a truly spectacular display of pyrotechnics. Fragments and chuck of metal, trailing fire, were flung like child' toys high into the air, bouncing and tumbling across the dusty ground.

_You got what was coming to you. All of you._

Issac clenched a fist, nodding with satisfaction as the explosions continued chaining. He banked the Orca, turning his head to watch the ruins of the convoy burn.

" Look alive, flight ! " It was McDermont again. " Eyes on the village ! They're waking up ! "

He was spot on. Blinking with mild surprise, Issac turned his attention away from the flaming wreckage back to forward again, and saw that the " village "-

Well, it wasn't actually a village at all, now was it ? Right in front of them, the GDI pilots saw that the building and structures were literally shape shifting; Roof corrugated metal panels were folding open, walls and siding were falling off, spitting out from within _Second_ Tiberium Conflict attack buggies and rocket cycles. Taps were pulled down and off of what were now revealed to be heavy machine guns and 40mm Bofors mounts.

Oh, and a few SAM batteries to boot. The village was gone, and the GDI hadn't fired a shot at it yet. It hadn't even been there at all.

_Well, well, well. Who else isn't shocked by this ?_

_" Divertente ! ", _Accuzzo exlaimed. " They thought they could hide ? ! "

" Evidently ", McDermont agreed. " Flight, go hot on the base. All targets are hostile. Burn it down. "

As with the trucks, the order was hardly required. Xiphos flight fanned out; McDermont headed right, calling for Accuzzo to follow. He sent Issac and the 4th pilot- another American ( a Texan, unlike everyone in California, who is a borderline Communist anyway ) named Dean Jensen to handle the left flank.

" Stay on the perimeter ! ", he instructed them. " Hose them down! Prioritize those SAMs ! "

" Its a hunt, boss ", Jensen acknowledged in his Texan drawl. " We read you loud and clear. "

A lover of big- and modern ( nothing from the 70's ) pickup trucks, guns ( Because he's Texan, and Texan for life , who understood the value and appeal of guns), and brunette girls ( which explained his wife ), Dean always was the one to stay even keeled and relaxed no matter how intense the situation became. There were fewer things more shameful than panicking in battle, but Dean hand't- even during that encounter with an unexpected column of BON Mantis AA vehicles in Anatolia !

Accuzzo may have been fun to harass, and McDermont was the rock they rallied around, but Dean was the life of the flight.

_Texans are the truest Americans: Freedom, God, and Guns. _

" Did you bring your shotgun, Dean ? ", Issac asked, as he brought his Orca around on the left flank of the base, forming up into formation. He slaved his guns to his helmet.

" My pump gun's overkill for this ", The Texan replied. " All I need is my old BB gun ! ".

" Ha ! "

A burst of 12.7mm rounds interrupted, lashing out from what had been a rooftop water tank.

Jinking the stick, Issac got busy; a burst of cannon shells took care of the weapons emplacement. Swinging the whole craft around, Issac did so soon enough to spot a rickety attack buggy rumbling around from the corner of the building, its roof guns already sparking.

A javelin missile, delivered free of charge, erased the buggy from existence. A second one appeared seconds later, but Dean, who must've had a better angle, took it out with a few Javelin missiles of his own. The mangled remains of the buggy flipped like a pancake, bouncing across the road to hit a building across the street.

" Nice ! ", Issac approved.

They continued their dismantling of the base. A technical with a DshK in its bed rolled out of a garage dressed up as a warehouse, and engaged them. 3 seconds later, Issac's cannon had removed the problem.

_Honestly. What are these amateurs thinking ? This is live fire exercise , not a battle._

_" _Stay on the gun trucks ", Dean called. " They're pesky unless you swat them fast. "

" Copy that. "

More rockets were flying now, as BON footsoldiers with shoulder mounted Krait launchers made their way onto the various rooftops, and took shots at the Orcas. Issac returned fire, watching a former cafe disintegrate under more of his Javelins. A two story house next door, with more rocket contrails emanating from it, met a similar fate seconds later at the hands of Dean's warheads.

" That'll keep the skies safer ", Dean noted. " Like keeping a rifle under your bed. "

" Amen to that. "

Abruptly, an explosion powerful enough to shake and vibrate the entire Orca around Issac, and jounce him around hard against his seat restraints rent the air ! He felt his pule race at several seconds.

" God almighty ! ", Dean yelled. " What was that ?! "

Issac had no answer; he was still getting his bearings again. Glancing around, he saw a giant column of roiling black smoke looming over the base, now forming into a budding mushroom cloud.

" Did they have a tac-nuke, or something ?! ", he finally queried. " That was a hell of a blast. "

" You can thank the Italian ". McDermont informed them. He sounded mildly bemused. " He fired on what he _thought_ was a fuel depot. It seems he underestimated himself. "

" Turned out to be a _ammo_ depot instead. "

" They looked the same from this angle ! ", the aforementioned Italian insisted. " Besides;no ammo,no fuel. They're hobbled either way. "

Well, his logic _was_ unassailable. After all, as Napoleon had said: You can last 3 days without water, but not 3 minutes without gunpoweder.

" Could've been a _Tib_ depot ", Issac reminded them. " We'd all be dust now. Thanks, Accuzzo. "

" Italians. Still hazardous to their allies over a hundred years after WW2. "

A round of laughter followed, during which the Italian in question resigned himself to it yet again.

What else could he do ?

* * *

The base was in ruins now.

In addition to the big smoke pillar that had formed over the blazing ammo depot, at least a half dozen other smaller ones had formed all over it, as clear evidence of how thoroughly the Desert Knights had worked it over. Entire buildings were now nothing more that crumbled piles of the materials they'd been made from, with piles and heaps of twisted, mangled, warped metal that used to have been tottering Second Tiberium Conflict vehicles provided more decoration to the smashed BON den.

The Orcas had lingered in the area after silencing the last of the incoming fire, watching carefully for even the slightest sign of movement. However, there was nothing to be found below. There was no movement at all, and they were finally satisfied that they'd cleared the playing board, so to speak.

All in a day's work.

With nothing left to shoot at, McDermont rounded them up into cruising formation, and set off along the way they'd been going before they'd reached the base. The flight still had a patrol route to complete.

The sun was setting, casting the landscape in a peach colored hue. Everywhere Issac looked, the land was either emerald Tiberium, or mixed shades of gold and tan, as the sun's rays bounced and reflected off the desert. If this had been a B-Zone, there'd have been the beauty of city lights as well.

But, it wasn't. It was a Y-Zone. A dead, empty Y-Zone, home to nothing Tiberium and the BON.

_Well, a little less off them now. Thanks to us._

Day by day, they were clearing the BON off the Earth. It was easier to deal with them than the Tiberium, though. That insufferable crystal growth was proving to be a greater problem than the BON was, and it wasn't one that the GDI's fighters could solve.

They could still fight and kill the BON, though. That would have to be enough for them.

It was.

_Time for some ' Radioactive ' . _It seemed fitting enough. Besides, Tiberium rads could make what had happened at Chernobyl sound like a pleasant sauna.

Issac scrolled down to it in his playlist, and hit ' Play '. Seconds later, the warbling, thrumming lyrics of Imagine Dragons were belting out. Over the open channels,of course.

" Dang. " , Dean remarked. " You have odd tastes, Issac. "

" Why ? You'd prefer " Gonna cut you down ? "

As if on cue, McDermont interrupted. " Not if he wants a court martial. "

It was hard to tell if he was serious. That was clearly the desired effect; Issac sensible left ' Radioactive ' playing.

Accuzzo huffed over the comms. " Nothing comes close to Italy's culture in sounds. "

" Or their rationale in making the Fiat. Explain _that_, Accuzzo."

" He can't ", Dean pointed out triumphantly. " Italy's got no answer to that, no sir. "

" Heh, too right. "

Accuzzo's impending cutting response to that was itself cut short by McDermont calling out again.

" Heads up ! 2:00: Incoming dust storm ! "

_Dust storm ?!_

Of all the surprises that a Y-Zone could throw at him, Issac had nearly forgotten about the freak dust storms that could crop up with little to no warning. They were nothing to shake a stick at, either. They were massive, swirling things that could effortlessly span dozens of miles, and reach upwards of a thousand ft in height. On top of the density of the dust itself, they were also laced and laden with chunks and fragments of Tiberium.

They were basically gigantic sanding machines, scouring everything and anything they touched and/or caught down with whipping gust of coarse sand and emerald crystals, and McDermont had evidently spotted one headed right for them.

Turning his head to the 3:00, Issac saw it: a wall- that was it, to a T- of tan racing toward them. It was at a perfect angle to catch them, and with its already close proximity, they didn't have much chance at outrunning it.

Xiphos flight was caught in a vise.

_Wonderful ! First the BON aims to kill us, now the land itself !_

_" _ We're in for it, I think. ", Accuzzo called out.

" God ! That's not a storm; that's a monstrosity. " , Dean observed.

He was still not sounding frightened, not quite, but there was no doubt he understood what the situation was:

This storm had them dead to rights.

They weren't getting out of this one.

_Here we go_, Issac thought.

_Here we go._


End file.
